


Dragon's Breath and Other Body Shots

by himitsutsubasa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, Abandonment, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Artists, Blizzards & Snowstorms, CEO, Evolution, Flowers, Greek gods, Inspired by Music, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mpreg, Muses, Music, Red String of Fate, Rescue, Selkies, Social Media, Tattoos, Trapped In Elevator, Tumblr, Wolf Derek, actual cat, menswear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-05
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 05:20:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 11,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2257305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/himitsutsubasa/pseuds/himitsutsubasa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What better time for Peter to propose than when a dragon's after them?</p><p>1. Chris/Peter - Badly Timed Proposal (2014-09-05)<br/>2. Isaac/Jackson - Menswear (2014-09-06)<br/>3. Chris/Peter - Stranded in a Blizzard (2014-09-07)<br/>4. Derek/Stiles - Hurt/Comfort (2014-09-13)<br/>5. Derek/Stiles - Best Man Speech (2014-09-27)<br/>6. Chris/Peter - Song (2014-10-03)<br/>7. Danny Mahaelani - Red String of Fate (2014-10-12)<br/>8. Derek/Stiles - Evolution (2014-11-15)<br/>Update: Rick Riordan wants nothing to do with this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chris/Peter - Badly Timed Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter decides to propose at the worst time possible.

“Marry me?”

Oh, fuck. A dragon.

Peter narrowly avoided the fire ball the dragon hurled at them. Why on earth of all things did a dragon have to show up? Crawling, rather gracefully no matter what anyone would say later, he found refuge behind a felled log.

“This isn’t the best time to propose to Chris, Peter!” Stiles darted to his side, pressing himself against the soggy tree. “Why the fuck did Derek have to get his wish?”

“What wish?” Peter peeked over the edge. Chris, ensconced behind a rock, waved his gun. Derek also waved but from somewhere deeper in the woods. Peter turned again and stared at the metal beast as it tore down another tree and torched it. At this rate, the entire forest would be set alight.

Stiles gasped. “You know how we’ve been having double dates?”

Peter growled, shattering part of the log with his claws. Why did he ever let his nephew have access to his HBO? “Your boyfriend wanted a fucking dragon from Game of Thrones?”

He heard the tell-tale tinkling of breaking glass. Fuck. It had been a horrible idea to show up to Derek and Chris’ bonding hour with a bottle of good wine. “We’re never crashing their Friday vent sessions ever again.”

“Your nephew first, but agreed.” Stiles nodded as the flames caught on another tree. They would keep the bonding drinking strictly to their every other Thursday meet ups of people-who-were-villains-at-one-point-but-weren’t-really-because-insert-thing-beyond-their-power-here.  “Do you have a plan?”

Peter eyed the dragon’s underbelly. “I’m going to need at least one distraction.”

“Chances?”

Peter waved to the Chris and Derek, who had made his way to the rock. They waved back relaying information across the noisy divide. “Fifty-fifty, if there’s nothing else hiding out there.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Because god knows that’s popular. Do I get to be best man?”

“What?” Peter pressed his hand to his jeans pocket feeling the metal band that waited for a month already. “He hasn’t even said ‘Yes’ yet.”

“But he will.”

A gunshot sounded. “Go!”

Peter and Stiles darted from behind the log and into the line of fire.

* * *

Stiles turned to Derek, dousing the last of the flames out of the tree behind the werewolf. “So are you going to be best man or am I going to be best man?”

Derek shrugged, trying to block out the sounds of Peter’s joy. “Obviously me. He has to do good by the family.”

Stiles knocked his shoulder. “I'm pretty sure if anyone is qualified to give Chris the warning, I am.”

“There’s also the speech.” Derek let Stiles loop his arm through his as they made their way back to Derek’s Camaro. 

“Better if you do it.”

He pressed a kiss to the top of his boyfriend’s head. “And when we get married, Peter can give our speech."

“Is it strange that I really want to hear that?”

“Yes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Peter would give the best speeches though. 
> 
> Claire wrote a great fic about a badly timed proposal. I'll never do the idea justice, but why the hell not? I'll probably end up putting any short stuff I write in here. It's probably going to go from decent to awful. Hooray.


	2. Isaac/Jackson - Menswear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After meeting his tailor's assistant, Jackson has to admit that he's definitely into selkies.

Jackson settled back into his chair as the Chelsie showed him another set of fabric swatches.

The blonde woman leaned forward, pointing out a piece of soft wool.

“This shade of blue will be lovely.”

Jackson took the swatch set, feeling the smoothness of the silk and supple body of the cotton. He shook his head a little.

“It’s a little light for a winter suit.”

Chelsie took the stack from him and held it to the light, letting the white fluorescents show off the fragile white pattern underneath the blue. Jackson, once more imagining blue eyes and blond hair against a dark background, grasped the fabric.

Chelsie sighed, reaching into the black box she prepared for the appointment. “It will be perfect for the Westley’s winter ball. Jackson, you know I am the best.”

“And I trust you.” Jackson handed her the swatches. “I want a new tuxedo, two from the slate palette, and this.”

“Three pieces?” She asked while setting those aside.

“Absolutely.”

“Should I arrange for ties?”

“Do you ever not?”

She smirked and slapped his hand as he reached for her box. “Once. 2009. You looked deplorable.”

“I was a kid.”

Chelsie smacked the back of his head. “You didn’t listen to me and wore a dark violet tie with that cream suit. I don’t forget, Jackson. I never forget.”

“Work your magic.” Jackson raised a brown and the witch rolled her eyes tapping words into her phone. “I want protection charms in them.”

Chelsie, standing on her toes, pressed a kiss to each of his cheeks. “I think you are charming enough. Come in next week.”

“I thought you’re going to be gone?" Jackson picked up the jacket he slung over the stand she kept by the door.

Chelsie rolled her eyes and swatted his hand as he reached for one of the red and white crème mints in the glass jar by the door. “I have an assistant, Jackson. He’s very good at his job, unlike a certain lawyer I know.”

Jackson turned from her and stepped down the little white step onto the wet sidewalk. “But seeing you is infinitely better than speaking with my father.”

“Tell Peter he has a fitting scheduled for tomorrow.” Chelsie

“I hate when my friends are on a first name basis with my father.” He couldn’t stomach the idea that almost everyone, even Danny, knew his father by first name. That and the knowledge that his father wore v-necks all the time to impress his other father despite their seven years of marriage.

She sighed and pushed him out the rest of the way. “And I hate it when you don’t schedule appointments; we can’t have everything we want.”

* * *

Jackson stood in front of the shiny brown shop a week later as the faint September mist poured over his shoulders. He smiled at the cool air as San Francisco finally fell into autumn’s arms and the evening swells of wisp and mystery swirled as the year drew to a close.

The soft tinkle of the golden bell attached to the door, taken from her mentor’s shop in Italy, Chelsie said, drew his attention for a moment, before he turned to the jar and took a mint.

Sweet sugary cream and mint filled his mouth.

“I’ll be right with you!” Chelsie’s assistant appeared for a second before darting back into the back.

Jackson, running his fingers through his hair, glanced around the small space. Dark panels, which seamlessly blended into the floor, on white wall made up the borders of the space. A few white shelves, with small placards and filled with shirts and ties of all colors, lined the walls. A large white table with four chairs took some floor space and showcased a demure grey suit jacket with a roll of measuring tape draped over the shoulder. Jackson hung his jacket on the stand and stepped further into the shop.

It smelled like it always did, of mint and chocolate. Soft music played in the background, piano crescendos and what he recognized as Green Day.

The man, dressed in dark slacks and a white shirt, appeared again. “Mr. Argent-Hale?”

Deep blue fringed pupils stared at him as wrinkles formed around round and gorgeous eyes. Jackson smiled in return and held out a hand. “I prefer Whittemore. Jackson Whittemore. Werewolf.”

The blond took his hand and grasped it firmly. “Isaac Lahey, selkie. Pleasure.”

Jackson, trailing his eyes down the body of the man who would be getting very comfortable with his inseam, gave the hand a little squeeze. “Definitely a pleasure.”

Isaac laughed and extracted his hand. “She told me you are a flirt. Come on. Let’s get you in the tuxedo first.”

* * *

“Chelsie, this is actually a problem,” Jackson tossed his head back and sighed.

The water fae had the day off and though Jackson had shown up on the pretense of checking on Chelsie, he hadn’t expected to actually see her until she opened the door. The drop of disappointment burned between them both, more his than hers, as she merely rolled her eyes when she saw him.

Jackson tried to breathe normally as he imagined the deep, blue eyes staring up at him and blond hair bobbing at hip level. Isaac was some kind of wintry breath of sweet sexiness who turned into sparkly forgiveness every time Jackson shifted while getting his inseam measured.

Chelsie stuck another pin in the fabric and stepped back. “What’s actually a problem is you showing up here all the time to ogle his ass and calling me on my day off to tell me that Isaac is just your type.”

“Chelsie.”

“Jackson,” she mimicked, dropping her voice and letting it get husky like it had been when they first met seven years ago.

The man groaned and placed his hands over his face. “I regret befriending you, you heartless Brit.”

She chuckled, refolding the collar of the slate suit. “We Brits do have a lower tolerance for bullshit.”

“I thought you were all fluffy like Canadians.” The ones that didn’t turn dark because he met seen a dark Canadian and Stuart the demon in IT had nothing on her.

Cheslie turned and sat on the table with her fabric cuts and un-wrapped a mint. “We subjugated most of the world. We are may be small, but we are mighty.”

Isaac was taller than Jackson expected though. He almost had two inches on the lawyer and if though he had never had the chance to press someone taller into his mattress, he imagined it would be glorious spreading those long legs. And the sight of that tall man in his living room would be priceless.

“But his eyes are so blue.” Jackson settled with his elbows on his knees, head in hands.

Isaac bringing coffee to bed as they kissed and made room for breakfast. Meeting friends and introducing Danny to Isaac and knowing they would get on like a house on fire.

“Oh my god” Chelsie’s palm smacked her face.

“And his ass. That ass.”

That ass in the air and willing. That ass on his couch, wrapped in one of his shirts and surrounded by a mound of pillows. Isaac, a part of his life and happy to stay.

She threw a mint at him and cheered as it bounced off his head. “As his boss and your friend, I think you would both be doing me a favor if you just ask him out already.”

Jackson sighed. “I don’t even know if he likes me.”

Chelsie rolled her eyes. “He got really comfortable with your inseam.”

Something Jackson would not forget anytime soon. “And?”

“He hates doing inseams. I do inseams.” Chelsie tossed him a mint and continued speaking, “I stab people with pins and do inseams. Isaac doesn’t do inseams.”

Jackson, popping the candy in his mouth, felt the beginning strings of a plan in his mind. “Have you made the alterations to the blue yet?”

Chelsie’s smile twisted and she narrowed her eyes and flicked an eyebrow up. “No.”

* * *

“You look lovely.”

Jackson tightened his grip on Isaac’s hand as the blond gaped at the ice arches of the Westley estate. They passed statue after statue of ice and piles and piles of snow. The Westley’s were winter fae of Washington and as the scrawling lines of Latin screamed, very into law.  

Isaac, cheeks pinking, exhaled with a prayer as they passed Nila Westley, who wore in a sculpted ice gown made of lacy frost. She turned, smiled, and returned to her conversation with Allison Argent.

“I’m at the Westley ball. Not my clothes at the ball, me.”

Jackson kissed his cheek. “Surprise is cute on you.”

Isaac turned and kissed his lips.

“I’m glad you think so.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Petopher as heads of the firm and Jackson's parents, though Jackson does prefer the adopted Whittemore to separate himself from them.)
> 
> I really like magical creatures are known and interbreed (while maintaining an subtype divide) au's. I was going to make Chelsie Lydia but I wanted him to have a friend he made over in Britain, where he did undergrad before going to Yale law.


	3. Chris/Peter - Stranded in a Blizzard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "At a ski lodge and somehow got stuck outside in the middle of the storm but hey look there’s a conveniently abandoned cabin I guess the logical thing to do is go in there and snuggle for warmth for the night."

“This is all Stiles’ fault.” Peter, huffing, unwrapped the scarf and tossed it over the back of the chair.

Chris knelt over the hearth, stiff fingers fanning the small flame he made moments before. The cabin they found, in good condition and left only recently if the lack of dust was any indication, was their salvation from the blizzard outside and, apparently, as Peter raided the cabinets, completely empty. “I’m not going to disagree with you on that.”

Peter groused in the background, searching for a phone or carrier pigeon; he was wet and not very picky at the moment. “How is it that he managed to book a skiing trip in the middle of a blizzard?”

“I don’t know and I don’t want to know.”

Chris pulled off his gloves, wincing as he saw a small touch of blue in his fingers. The wood fire warmed the room only minutely and the wood, scavenged from trees by the cabin, would not last the night.

Freezing to death sounded just as bad as getting stabbed in the stomach and feeling his stomach acid dissolve his organs. Especially if it mean Peter would be left with his stiff corpse first.

“Peter, are you alright?”

“No.” Peter fell to the floor next to Chris, lying on the fur rug with grace his stiff joints shouldn’t have. “I burned to death once and now I might die from frostbite in a cabin god-knows-how-far from the lodge. In a sentence: No, Christopher, I am not alright.”

Drama queen. Glad that at least temporarily the Hales and Argents were not going to kill each other when the other’s back was turned, Chris rose and hobbled over to the bed. “There are blankets, Peter. We might survive.”

“Do you know how long this could last?” The wolf whined and Chris unceremoniously dropped the cool pile of fur and fluff on him. “Several days. We could have anything from ten inches to three feet of snow.”

“That’s a little excessive for California.” Chris pulled an alpaca blanket over his shoulders, reveling in how the wolf’s supernatural heat had already warmed the fur.

Peter snorted, pulling a downy comforter closer. “Who says there isn’t something supernatural behind it?”

Chris pressed deeper into the warmth, disheartened by the sight of the fire fading a little. “A Yeti?”

“Christopher, for once, you are correct.” Peter lifted the comforter and fluffed it a little before resettling it on his lap.

Chris shivered a little. Perhaps shedding his coat and letting skin get closer to the fur would help with the chill. Or maybe acting and using Peter as a body heater. “You think a Yeti caused this?”

Peter rolled his eyes. “Now that I’m suitably warmed, I have to admit that Stiles does his research and there were no blizzard warnings on the way here.”

“So some ice monster is going to come out and kill us? Great.”

Sighing, Chris regretted not spending more time up north and learning the mythology. Exclusively hunting in warm climates was a bad decision on his part. He could only wonder how the kids were faring. Though, in all likelihood, they made it back to the lodged and regrouped. Once the snow passed, they would start tracking.

Only there wouldn’t be any scents or tracks to follow.

Chris breathed. The lack of sunlight made telling time impossible. It could be two or midnight, though he guessed somewhere near five in the evening. The sun had just barely touched the mountaintops when he and Peter were sent scrambling for cover.

“If anything happens to me, I want to take care of Allison. She likes you, even if she won’t admit it.”

Peter, a hard line under the roundness of the down, tensed further. A warm hand, intimate and soft, made its way to his knee, gripping there.

Peter slipped out from under the comforter, stripping off his shirt and hissing at the sting of cold air. “Christopher, come here.”

“What are you doing?” Chris shifted carefully as Peter reached for the zipper of his jacket. Peter glanced up before resting his hands of the solid planes of Chris’ stomach. The thick wool fell away as did another of his shirts.

His pants, stiff from wet and cold, followed in an icy, melted crumble. Peter smirked and Chris wanted to kiss the wry twist off his stupid face. “Let’s get you warmed up, shall we?”

Peter reached his hand behind Chris’ neck as the hunter’s bare skin met air warmed by the wolf’s touch. He let the wolf guide him until he lay flat on his back in something like a nest of fur and blanket. Peter, curling around and on top of him, breathed into his neck.

“Better?”

Chris shifted as Peter’s leg fell between this own and the wolf wrapped his limbs around the hunter. Roving fingers attached to hands trapped between them stroked his muscles, mapping with sharp nails. Warm like a furnace and sharp like a blade, Peter rested like a weight on his chest. But, Chris felt as he settled his hands on the wolf’s lower back, the touch brought life back into his blood vessels.

He chuckled into the wolf’s ear as Peter slid a pillow under their heads. “I thought you were against all forms of physicality.”

“The moon is rising.” Peter, searching for a place to rest his chin, turned his head. “I can feel it.”

“It’s going to get colder.” The brush of stubble warmed his chilled skin and Chris shivered as a cold nose pressed against his neck.

“Obviously,” Peter huffed into his skin. “I can’t have kids accusing me of letting you freeze.”

Chris closed his eyes. Sure, the kids were the reason why Peter fondled his pectorals like they were a gift. “Sleep. We have to get some rest while we can.”

“Hmm…” The wolf settled closer, melting into him, and Chris willed his heart to beat normally until Peter’s breathing evened out.

He had at least an hour before nightmares pushed the wolf to waking. Plenty of time to form a plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I failed miserably there... I'll rewrite this sometime...


	4. Derek/Stiles - Hurt/Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Sterek AU:_
> 
> _Their is a new villian in town. Everyone of the pack is doing something important. Stiles decides to search through the woods on his own….Stupid idea…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I told myself I wouldn't add sterek but it happened. Also, the petopher? lol you're not imagining it.  
> [Repost](http://himitsutsubasa.tumblr.com/post/94457399147/)

He’s barely in the door when the nurses whisked Stiles away with the cold efficiency that Derek remembered from when Peter as in the hospital. Derek stood in the door way, chest heaving and legs shaking.

Stiles. Stiles who looked so cold and empty, the light of life in his eyes fading, but so human too precious to give the bite.

"Derek, calm down." A hand pulled him further into the room. It was a woman and she smelled like cinnamon and clove and family. Derek followed, one foot after another, as she led him towards a set of chairs.

Melissa pushed him into a chair. She patted his arm and knelt in front of the chair with a soft smile. “What happened?”

"It… it was the dragon." Derek breathed slowly, reaching for his anchor and feeling it was still there. "Stiles went off to face it on his own and…"

Melissa glanced around to see if anyone was listening. Derek could feel the clean tapping of each heart, not a single stutter at his words.

"Is the dragon still alive?" 

Derek remembered the man, burnt skin and smoke an bad memories, broken on the forest floor. His neck was at an impossible angle and his clothes shredded like his torso.

"No." He ran his hands over his face. "God, I need to call Chris."

Melissa nodded. “Take care of it. Stiles is going to be okay.”

Derek tightened his grip on his anchor and pulled out his phone. “Okay.”

<himitsu writes>

Chris promised to clean up with the usual finesse of a man who has done it one too many times. “Who knows? Maybe we’ll find your uncle out there too.”

Derek breathed. Peter. He’d forgotten all about the cryptic remarks that morning and the snide smirks. “Get it done.”

Chris hung up and Derek leaned against the decorative columns outside the hospital. He could do this. He could do this.

He reached for his anchor and felt Stiles’ heart, still beating, and the little vibration that mean that the kid was, for the most part, okay. Derek exhaled slowly and focused. Stiles was fine. The dragon was dead and Stiles was fine.

He found his way back to the emergency room, senses off ot avoid the smell of antiseptic, and waited. A woman, not Melissa but short and blonde and old enough to be his grandmother, directed him to the room.

"He’s almost awake, amazingly enough," she told him, waddling along. "Wild animal attack you said?"  

"Yeah." Derek felt some degree of shame for not telling the whole truth.

"Can’t do nothing about that. You’re the Hale boy, right?"

"Yeah."

She stopped outside the door and glared through her watery grey eyes. “Now you take care of him, okay? He grew up in my ER and I don’t want you messing with his head now.” 

Derek felt his heart jump in his chest. “I’m not…”

She smacked his arm. “Don’t lie to me,  boy. I may be a little old lady, but I can still kill you and hide the body.”

Derek doubted that but she was a sixty-something ER doctor. “Yes, Dr. Lensherr.”

She smiled, good humor restored and ready to see her next patient. “Good boy. His daddy’s in there so you better knock.”

Derek listened as her heart beat got further and further away. He inhaled and knocked. “Can I come in?”

"Sure." The Sheriff sat on the stool by the bed, getting up as Derek opened the door. Stiles was awake, but just barely as Derek could tell.

"What happened?"

Derek shut the door behind him, not too loudly as to annoy the nurses. “We got on the trail of a dragon. Stiles… He thought he figured out a way to kill it.”

"But it didn’t work." The man’s face was drawn, too old for a man so young. 

"No." Derek recalled how easily the dragon fell under his claws. "He made it easy to kill, but at that point he was already too beaten up to do anything about it."

"Am I going to have to clean this up?

"I’ve got Chris on it." Derek breathed. "What do I tell them?"

The Sheriff sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll get Parrish to take your statements. He’ll clean up any loose ends. Just, say you two were investigating some animal tracks in the Preserve when something attacked you. You made enough noise to scare it off, but Stiles was already hurt.” 

Close enough to the truth to not get them in trouble. Derek was a deputy after all, and Stiles, well, everyone knew Stiles liked going into the woods at night. 

"Yes, sir."

The Sheriff put his hand on Derek’s shoulder and squeezed. “Call me ‘John’. Thank you for taking care of my son.”

Derek coughed into his shoulder. “My pleasure.”

The radio on his belt crackled and Parrish’s voice radioed in someone calling in a B&E, perpetrator still on site. The Sheriff gave Stiles one last look before leaving and Derek took his place in the chair by the bed.

"Stiles?"

"Derek?" Stiles fully opened one eye, then another. "Dad was here, wasn’t he?"

"He just left." Derek put one hand over Stiles’. "Don’t do that again."

Stiles smiled at him, relaxed as Derek sucked away his pain.”Yeah, lesson learned. Dragons are not fun to tango with.”

Derek didn’t move as Stiles pulled his arm. “How long?”

"A day." Stiles actually grinned. "I just had a few cuts and bruises, but they want to monitor my concussion."

"So you’ll make Lydia’s barbecue?" Derek hadn’t called any of the pack yet. He really should.

"She’d kill me if I didn’t." Stiles grimaced, glancing at Derek’s knuckles. "Too soon?"

"No." Derek recalled Stiles saying the exact same thing, except much closer to death last time around. "I’m just glad that you’re okay."

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Wow, feeling sharing, not that we don’t do that a lot, but could you have worse timing? So, are you gonna pop the question now?”

Derek drew his eyebrows together. “Pop what question?”

Stiles rolled his eyes again, this time taking Derek’s hand in his own and looking Derek in the eye. “You saved me from the dragon like some sort of knight errant. You are supposed to propose after something like that, though I resent being the princess in this equation.”

Derek felt something tense in his chest and he laughed, before clapping a hand over his mouth to muffle the sound.

"You’re the squire."

Stiles smirked, before it grew into a grin. “Historically speaking…”

"I don’t need to know." Derek brought his other hand up to clasp Stiles’. "Do you want to have dinner Friday?"

Stiles released one hand to toss it over his forehead in a dramatic faint.

"Why, Sir Hale, how forward of you, and choosing a lowly squire like me."

Derek stifled a laugh and growled, “Shut up.”

"You love it." Stiles leaned forward. "Now, give me a kiss."

Derek did.

An hour later, after Stiles had fallen asleep cuddling, Derek pulled out his phone to check his messages. Apparently, John had sent a mass message that Stiles was okay and the dragon was dead. The pack had responded accordingly.

A message form an unknonw number caught his eye. Apparently, at some point, Chris texted him: “Job done. Found Peter. Tell him to stop breaking into my place.”

 


	5. Derek/Stiles - Best Man Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter gives his speech.

Five years, three really bad dates, two moves, and a house later, they were actually going to do it.

Stiles linked his arm through his father’s (“Only appropriate since there is no way Derek would let me walk him down the aisle,” Peter said, flipping through color swatches. “It’s like burgundy and the shade of yellow you’re holding, a horrible idea.”) and waited for the door to open.

The church’s windows, filled with the beautiful light of the afternoon, sent shards of green and yellow across the walls and the crowd. The forest filled the room, strong and ready, a home for them.

And Derek. Derek waited at the end of the aisle, smiling like he had seen the sun for the first time and it exceeded all that he ever wanted. His dark head dipped as he caught Stiles’ eye and the younger man flushed.

All he had to say was two little words and this could be his forever.

“Do you, Stiles Stilinski, take Derek Hale as your lawfully wedded husband?

“I do.”

* * *

Peter smirked as the crowd shuffled settled and raised his glass, tapping the fragile crystal with his fork.

“Ahem.” The crowd, really just friends and family and people they trusted, turned to the front table and Peter sighed, “Thank you for attending the wedding of my nephew and his precious husband.”

Peter chuckled. “Stiles, it’s not too late for you to run away with me.”

The twenty-something held up his left hand and let the evening light glint off the golden band. “Not happening, Hale.”

Peter shrugged. “A man can try.”

He turned back to the crowd. “In all honesty though, I don’t think any of you have heard the whole story. Not even you, Scott, and God knows you and Stiles were joined at the hip all of high school.”

The crowd, most familiar with the man giving Peter an incredulous look, laughed.

“For those of you who don’t know the story, let’s see. About ten years ago, they met in the woods. Stiles, the crazy person he is, decided to look for a dead body.”

He gave the sheriff’s department a significant look. “Which hasn’t really changed, except he’s got a badge now. So, they found the body and the two kids had no idea what to do as my nephew strolled out of the woods looking like a serial killer. I seriously have no idea how they managed to hit it off like that but they did and that’s how they met.”

Peter glanced at the first table, where Chris smirked at him nodding for him to continue his story. “So, Stiles gets Derek arrested and that really puts a kink in their relationship like you wouldn’t believe because it’s a murder charge. Derek wasn’t convicted of course and for the next year these two hated each other.”

Peter snorted waving at the blissed out pair.  “I can’t believe it myself. Look at them; they’re like an old married couple. But, they hated each other until people started dying left and right. Then, Derek figured out that he could use his creepy sixth sense to catch criminals and became a deputy.”

Peter turned to Derek. “How did you pass that background check?”

Derek’s eyebrows twitched and the crowd laughed. “I didn’t.”

“Huh, maybe I should join up.” Peter made a show of thinking it over and cackling evilly.

“Cue the Sheriff over there realizing that Derek isn’t a horrible person like he believes; sorry nephew but, news flash, you’re not a complete failure. You more or less managed to raise the leather jacket crew at table two and I think that’s a few points in your favor. At that point, Stiles and I were drinking buddies and I know for a fact that Stiles wants the D.”

“And Chris, my husband, figured much the same after my nephew started drunkenly singing about Stiles. I’ve promised not to show anyone the video, so you’re all going to have to guess what song he was singing. Hint: Taylor Swift. Then they almost got killed in the woods for the… seventy-eighth, that’s it, time. Then they became the sickeningly sweet couple we’ve gathered here to bless.”

Peter coughed into the sleeve. “I think the body count was something in the hundreds, by the time they finally got their act together.

The crowd started cracking up and Chris rolled his eyes at Peter. Of course the people who knew them would have a darker sense of humor; Peter did hid demographic research carefully.

Peter turned to the couple, mic still in hand and an earnest smile on his face.

“Hey, Stilinski. You may be a cop, but if you hurt my nephew, I’m going to kill you and hide the body where no one will ever find it. I have an entire forest so don’t think I won’t do it.”

 

He turned to his nephew, clasping his left hand in a fist and placing it over his heart. “And, Derek, your parents would be so proud. We love you.”

Peter turned back to the crowd. “Can we get a round of applause for our happy couple?”

Somewhere, a wolf pack howled.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not perfectly happy with this, but I'm not sure I'll ever do it justice.
> 
>  
> 
> [Side](http://deathoflilies.tumblr.com/)  
> [Main](http://himitsutsubasa.tumblr.com/)


	6. Chris/Peter - Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris runs into a familiar face in a bar.

Dim lighting and shadows. It’s just another bar in just another city.

Chris cradles his drink and wonders if he really should be drinking when he’s supposed to be here on business. Not that that really matters because his father’s an alcoholic and it runs in the family to drink after a hard day. He’s trying really hard to be that man.

The torch singer, how they managed to find a beautiful, dark haired woman who sings like she’s a jazz age canary, Chris will never know, hums the last bars before stepping down.

“Refill?”

Chris glances at the bartender, before nodding and putting down another five. “I don’t want to get drunk.”

The man looks surprised, before gesturing to his menu and Chris is instantly reminded of where he is. It’s a popular bar that should have disappeared years ago, but hasn’t, and it’s one of those hole-in-the-wall places in New York, which come a dime a dozen but not like this. Because the alcohol here is that light weight stuff that makes you a little tipsy, but doesn’t get you drunk.

“Actually, never mind. Best stuff you’ve got.” He puts down another five.

The bartender smiles and gets him a smaller glass.

Chris turns back to the front. A man, not all that old to Chris but older than most of the hipsters that show up here, sits on a wooden stool with his guitar. It’s a piece of crap and Chris wants to knock it out of those beautiful hands because anyone with the face of an angel deserves the best.

The man adjusts the mic and Chris is treated to lovely icy eyes meeting his own. The man’s lips quirk up into a smile Chris remembers. He remembers the boy who ran with wolves and the hunter that stole him back.

He misses the dedication as the bartender hands him his drink, but he’s sure he knows the name that rolls off those lips before the guitar starts a somber strain.

“High dive into frozen waves where the past comes back to life.”

The voice is just as smoky as he remembers it, dark and woodsy like it was never meant to leave the hidden world of myth.

“Fight fear for the selfish pain, it was worth it every time.”

Chris sips from his drink as the other patrons start settling into the rhythm. It’s slower, more tortured than the radio version he heard a million times.

“Hold still right before we crash 'cause we both know how this ends.”

And they had. It had ended in a shower of bullets and in tears and blood and fire.

“A clock ticks 'til it breaks your glass and I drown in you again.”

The man glances at Chris, eyes a little wet, but still challenging, the roar of a lion in his throat, louder than the wolf howling in his heart. Louder than the sound of rolling thunder and the screams of children trapped in sleepless nights.

“'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need. Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why.”

Chris looks away.

“If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity? If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?”

The crowd murmurs at the words, as the singer switches beats and slows again.

“Walk on through a red parade and refuse to make amends. It cuts deep through our ground and makes us forget all common sense.”

The body count between them is too much; Chris can’t forgive himself or the man. According to their world, there is nothing to forgive in their war of souls, but there are the dead and the torn and children who were never meant to be soldiers. They have blood on their hands and the faintest burning light in their hearts because there was always something holding them and fraying their edges.

“Don't speak as I try to leave 'cause we both know what we'll choose. If you pull then I'll push too deep and I'll fall right back to you.”

The wolf doesn’t turn to him, instead swaying with his eyes closed. Chris finishes his drink.

“'Cause you are the piece of me I wish I didn't need. Chasing relentlessly, still fight and I don't know why. If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?”

The bartender is entranced, and he should be. Chris leaves a tip and starts shouldering on his jacket. His arms fill the sleeves and the wool falls warm around him like an embrace.

“Why are you my clarity? Why are you my remedy? Why are you my clarity? Why are you my remedy?”

The air is cold, very cold.

“If our love is tragedy, why are you my remedy? If our love's insanity, why are you my clarity?”

The wolf howls after him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to use "Animal" by Neon Trees, but I couldn't imagine a sober Peter Hale rocking out to that on stage. My sister loves this song and I think it fits.  
> [Song (I feel like this cover sort of fits. I couldn't find a perfect one.)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9N0EWAYspPg)
> 
> [Main](http://himitsutsubasa.tumblr.com/)   
>  [Ship](http://deathoflilies.tumblr.com/)


	7. Danny Mahaelani - Red String of Fate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Danny comes from a line of people who see the world as it truly is, a tapestry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Petopher here too.

It’s not the strangest thing ever now that Danny really thinks about it. Sure, it screwed him up as a kid because, well, it screwed him up as a kid, but that doesn’t make him any less of a badass boss. In fact it might make him more of a badass boss because he knows how to hide it and how to act on it.

There are red ones and blue ones and green ones and yellow ones and orange ones and grey ones and white ones and violet ones and sometimes a black one. He doesn’t like the black ones.

The string in front of him is light, almost like it isn’t there because it really isn’t, and red. It’s soft to the touch, but very strong, almost cutting hard when he first tried to push it out of the way. Strings didn’t do that often. A few had, but those were usually black and stained and ready to be cut. They wanted to be cut.

This red string was strong, a faded in places to pure white, and frayed, but one of the strongest strings he had ever seen. And Danny remembered his mother’s and father’s string. He remembered holding onto it when they went shopping and travelling because that string, that one, would always lead him home, just like it led his parents to each other.

This string is a little bastard because he’s trying to do calculus homework and he’s having a hard time focusing on it with it floating and wrapping itself around him.

So, he puts his pencil down and takes the string in his hands. The strand pulls taught, and it goes right through his walls. He flicks it with his finger and it rings like the pluck of a guitar string.

“What do you want?”

The string doesn’t talk, not that they ever did. But, it helps, he finds, when he’s not sure what the hell is going on with fate.

“I guess you want me to get them together?” The string hums and he’s not sure what that means. He tugs on it, guiding it out the door with him. Down the stairs, past the knowing looks of his mother, the questioning looks of his father and sister, and out into the street. The string tightens again, but folds in half, ends fading into a building.

“Use roads.” The string rearranges itself to go around the corner.

Danny stares down the lane before following.

The first is a fair distance off, about ten blocks from home and Danny wishes he took his bike.

Instead, he goes into the grocery store and tries not to feel the terror that comes with seeing his own strings grow taught. They are tight though, his blue and greens and that one yellow. The red strings ends around the corner and Danny peeks around the bend.

Chris Argent. Danny glances at the man’s hand to be sure. Yes, red.

“Well, aren’t you an interesting one?”

The string doesn’t say anything and Danny wants to laugh because what was he even thinking asking?

“Danny?”

“Mr. Argent?”

“How are you?”

“Good. You?”

“Good. Isaac?”

“In Paris. He’s good.”

“That’s nice.”

“Good bye.”

“Good bye.”

Danny follows the rest of the string as the other end of it stops in a checkout lane.

It goes up and up and up and Danny’s legs strain at the walking. It’s been at least an hour now and he’s getting a little tired of just walking everywhere. These are the times he misses Jackson, because Jackson never understood, never saw, but he was willing to drive Danny around town, to stop in strange places, for hours and hours. Sure, they had better things to do, but that’s what they did and Jackson never made fun on Danny for it.

The string goes and goes, past the Sheriff’s station where Parrish gives him a strange look, past the McCall house, where the lights are on, past the neighborhood Lydia lives in. It goes on and on and he is in the woods before he knows it. Up a hill and he knows where is it going.

“There’s no one there.”

The string doesn’t answer.

“You’re kidding me right?”

“Who could it even be?”

“Mr. Argent was married.”

“He had Allison.”

“Wasn’t that it?”

Ah, but it wasn’t, wasn’t it? Red strings didn’t mean that one couldn’t fall in love with other people, or fall in love again. It just meant that there was a chance, a really good chance and if the string was still standing, even with the splatters of white and single hairs holding it together, it was meant to be.

“I think you’re leading me on.”

“Are they even in Beacon Hills?”

A leaf crunched.

“Who’s there?”

“Just a kid.”

“I don’t know you.”

Danny looked the man at the other end of the string up and down.

“No, you don’t.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Nothing.”

“Something.”

“Nothing.”

“Tell me what you see.”

Danny pauses, but finally says it.

“Red.”

The man smiles and he is a wolf. Danny knows him now and he knows the story of the wolves of Beacon Hills.

“Blood?”

“Family is orange.”

“Pain?”

“Sacrifice is white.”

“Death?”

“Hatred is black. I don’t see it though.”

The man looks Danny up and down.

“What do you mean, child?”

“I see red and white.”

“What could that be?”

“Love and sacrifice.”

The man glances off into the woods and Danny shakes his head.  The man glances up at the house and Danny shakes his head.

The man glances at his hands and Danny nods. His eyes follow the string from where it is so tightly coiled it might cut off circulation if it was real and into the distance where it fades to nothingness.

“Who?” The wolf asks.

The string is moving. It moves east now, onto the road and Danny wonders if that means Chris Argent is coming or going.


	8. Derek/Stiles - Evolution

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Derek is a wolf and Stiles is a boy.

Stiles turned, gasping for air.

Oh, shit.

* * *

Stiles tapped the pen against his lip. Okay… so… not what he expected. Actually, nothing like he expected.

“You’re telling me he turned into a full on wolf?”

Braeden nodded, running her hand through her dark curls. “I mean black wolf tackling the crazy cat lady full wolf. Big, black, and…”

Everything he saw for himself. Everything they’d gone over when he’d called her in for the initial debrief, before she stalked out of Derek’s apartment with a smirk on her face and a jump in her carotid. Well then… Stiles spun in his chair, still tapping his pen against his lower lip.

“What else?”

Braeden glanced around the room, casting a gaze into the shadows, past the window, over his desk. Quick, sharp, hard, ripping every last detail apart like she wanted to scrape him out of his life and she would find exactly what she wanted in his things.

U.S. Marshal, was that? Stiles stopped spinning, turning to the woman seated in the other computer chair.

“We are alone.”

Braeden snorted, rolling her eyes and tossing her hair over her shoulder. “He climbs in through your window. Fat chance.”

Stiles didn’t let his eyes wander away from his face. Dirt, probably. In the shape of a boot, most likely. Scott and the others could get in through the door, easy as pie, or rather easy as pouring a cup of milk to have with pie. The only person who would need a window was… someone with trust issues, who didn’t like doing things the easy way, who liked hiding his location because he had it drilled into his head at one point or another that he would betray everyone accidentally, by not being the most invisible man in the world.

He should have wiped the dirt off.

“I swept the place before you came.”

Braeden settled into the chair, small smirk playing on her lips.

“You didn’t know I was coming.”

Wrong move then. She wanted confusion. Switching topics had just confirmed her suspicions. Stiles felt his fingers twitch. A victory and a fall. Always in that order.

“Let’s just say that after Mexico, Derek isn’t the only one that’s changed.”

“No…” Braeden squinted at him, tilting her head and letting her hair drape over her shoulder, shielding her body with a dark, tumbling curtain. “It was before. I didn’t even notice.”

And no one was supposed to.

“What did he say?”

Braeden looked down, eyes drifted down to his chest and resting there.

“He shifted back right after and he said something…”

“What did he say, Braeden?”

Stiles tempered his tone. Not to sharp. Hopefully. He was a kid still, a crazy kid who probably had more blood on his hands than any of her Marshal buddies, but still a kid. And maybe that would be enough to make her talk.

Braeden glanced over at the window one last time, before turning and looking Stiles square in the face.

“Something about ‘evolving’.”

* * *

“No. I was evolving, something you’ll never do.”

Stiles couldn’t pick up the words in perfect clarity, but he knew Derek was saying something, taunting Kate with something.

“What did you do next?”

Braeden stepped beside him, still staring at herself, her past self, the “her” he constructed out of her memories of the moment. She looked rather harried if Stiles had any comment to make.

Braeden shrugged, eyes still tracking herself as the faded memory moved across the scape. “I don’t really know…”

Stiles left her there, still staring, and turned to Derek.

Nude, tall, and fully self-actualized, if Maslow had a chance to cut in. The werewolf looked like he finally understood something, like he got it for the first time in his life.

And what he got, figured out, realized was much different from what Stiles learned.

“Fascinating.”

* * *

“Hey!”

Stiles knocked on the apartment door again. “Hey! Derek! I know you’re in there! The Camaro’s outside!”

Nothing. Stupid werewolf. Stupid, self-actualized werewolf who really needed to realize cutting a few hours of gym time out of his week would not do any major damage to his pecs.

“Derek, get your furry butt out here, or so help me God, I will draw a mountain ash line outside your building and seal it.”

The door clicked. Stubble, dad-jacket, an expression of peace that would put Buddha to shame. Yep, exactly what he was looking for.

The wolf stepped aside as Stiles swept past him into the cold flat. The windows shone with fresh glass, different, clearer, than the other windows. The gray sky outside threatened rain, but none of it in the next few hours. Not unless…

Thunder crashed and he felt the wolf bristle beside him.

Derek placed a warm hand on his shoulder, dragging it along until the wolf settled an arm around his shoulders.

“What happened to sweet, silly Stiles?”

Stiles dipped his head. Of course, Derek would be the one. Dad at work. Scott doing the alpha thing. Even Isaac was gone, no matter how much Stiles wanted to smack him. And he couldn’t count on the observational skills of the resident creeper. Such is the world.

Turning, he leaned into Derek’s side, twisting to look the man in the eye.

“He took a little vacation.”

Derek’s eyebrow lifted a millimeter. “New meds?”

“College apps.” Stiles chuckled. “Brings out the absolute worst in all of us.”

Derek twisted, hand never leaving Stiles’ shoulder, settling his other hand on Stile’s other shoulder and catching the boy’s eyes.

“Stress makes you focus.”

Obvious. But a much better reading than the others.

“I could panic as many times as I needed to. It didn’t do me any good.”

It never did and eventually… he wasn’t sure what happened eventually, but intellectual stress made his fingers dig into skin and his teeth grind together.

Derek’s eyes shuttered, darkness brewing like the storm outside. “Stiles…”

Stiles pressed his hands to Derek’s chest, feeling the hard wall of muscle and bone under the fabric. Solid and real, a big, bad wolf.  A self-actualized wolf and a real little red riding hood in that apartment.

“Show me.”

Derek raised his hand, only to have his caught in a gentle grip. “Stiles, I…”

“You didn’t tell me because you weren’t so sure,” Stiles cut him off. He stroked the rough fingers, guiding them to cradle his cheek. He closed his eyes slowly, smiling into the touch. “You’re sure now.”

Derek sighed, leaving his hand there after Stiles’ fell away, still sparking electricity under the boy’s skin. Somehow, after all this time, that hadn’t changed.

“You realize…”

Derek... Stiles opened his eyes slowly and smiled, the motion sliding over his lips like molasses. “You don’t need to ask me what I realize.”

Derek chuckled, letting the sound bounce between their bodies. “You’ve got this all figured out.”

He stepped back and Stiles turned as he was ordered to do. A rustle, warm heat as Derek pressed a kiss to the back of his neck, and then the sound of clicks that chased danger through his dreams.

“Derek…” A soft whine.

Stiles turned around, eyes widening, features slackening.

Big, just like Braeden said, but warm and soft. Stiles knelt, digging his fingers in the warm scruff around Derek’s neck. The fur parted under his fingers, mostly soft hairs for now. It seemed the guards would grow to full length soon, but the shedding cycle favored his first experience.

“You’re lovely.”  He buried both hands in the fur and pressed his lips to his wolf’s forehead, crooning and humming his pleasure and joy.

“You’re absolutely lovely.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly don't know what the characterization was for the end of season 4. Like, honestly I have no idea where anyone other than Peter and Chris are. Well, okay, Scott, but that's because he doesn't really change season to season.
> 
> Also, I had the idea that maybe the Nogitsune left more in Stiles than he lets on and stressful periods really bring that out in him.


	9. Chris/Peter - Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter has a cat.

Chris doesn’t know if he is supposed to help Cheshire or let the bloody couch swallow Peter’s cat.  
  
Right now he’s leaning towards the swallowing.  
  
"This is what you get for scratching me every time I come over."  
  
The cat’s eyes widen at his words and seems to be asking itself if it has gone insane.   
  
Chris is the one talking to the cat. If anyone here is crazy, its’ him.  
  
"Do you solemnly promise to not be a cockblock?"  
  
He gets a plaintive meow and takes that as an affirmation.  
  
"Hold still." And he lifts the cat out of the crack.  
  
The cat does not scratch him, or hiss at him, or attempt to murder him.  
  
"Chris, did Cheshire…?" Peter stops. "Oh."  
  
The damned cat is purring and acting like Chris will dispense catnip if it rubs against him enough.  
  
Peter sits next to Chris, and snuggles in on Chris’s other side. “I’ve never seen her do that.”  
  
Chris smiles, because take that Deucalion Cheshire likes Chris and that is pretty much getting parental approval, and pats the cat’s head and the purring goes up a few decibels.


	10. Chris/Peter - Going Corporate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> IMAGINEYOUROTP:  
> Imagine your OTP stuck in an elevator after they’ve had a fight.   
> KIWIGGLE:  
> #TENSION ON SO MANY LEVELS
> 
> [Ask and I deliver.](http://deathoflilies.tumblr.com/post/99763544066/kiwiggle-imagineyourotp-imagine-your-otp)

"You again?"  
  
Peter stares at the numbers swiftly tumbling down and tries not to crow at the idea that he’s in an elevator with the man he’s been looking for. “Feeling a little raw after that board meeting?”  
  
"I can’t believe you got Yukimura to side with you."  
  
"You didn’t snatch her up quickly enough."  
  
"We play golf together."  
  
"Our daughters are dating. Clearly, one of the two wins out." Noshiko had turned him down initially, only switching her vote that morning. Clearly, Peter thought, Argent did not know the workings of that woman’s mind, not that Peter really understood them.  
  
Argent grits his teeth and the wolf can hear the faint crunch. “You little plan could sink the ship.”  
  
"No." The plan is watertight. Really, he has the best minds working on it (Stiles bribed with non-stop curly fries, Lydia with a promotion and raise, Danny with shiny new technology and enough funds to launch their little project). "I think you’re thinking too far inside the box."  
  
"This economy doesn’t allow thinking outside the box," Argent growls and Peter remembers why he is CEO and Argent is CFO. No imagination. No vision.  
  
The elevator clatters and then stops.   
  
Peter hears an incredulous “You’re kidding me” and takes a moment to process that.  
  
"I guess we should pay our engineers better."  
  
"Really, Hale?" Argent punches at the open button. "We are one of the biggest technology companies in the world and we can’t afford elevators that work?"  
  
Peter turns around and admires the view. He can see almost all of the downtown from the floor they’re on (the sixty’s he assumes). It’s breathtaking in the sunset.  
  
"Hale, you…" Argent stops, following Peter’s line of vision to the swirls of pink and gold at the horizon.  
  
"I was born on the other side of this country." Peter can almost taste the sea salt on his tongue. "And after I lost everything, I thought I would never be happy again."  
  
"But I found Malia, I had Derek and Laura, I scraped together some money and sold my first program. And soon enough, I was calling investors trying to put together enough to start production on the first Lune laptops."  
  
"So don’t tell me I don’t care about this company. Each person here is my family and I love every last bit of it, down to the screws in your desk."  
  
Peter smiles and Argent takes in the lines at his eyes, not worry, but love lines. “I wouldn’t give it up for anything in the world.”   
  
"I believe that."  
  
Peter turns to Argent and reads the smile on his face.  
  
"So," the man says, settling down on the floor, suit crinkling as he goes. "Want to tell me about your next, big vision?"  
  
Peter smiles and sits next to Argent, their backs to the door and their eyes on the sunset.   
  
By the time, Derek gets them out, Argent’s name is Chris and they are going to dinner.


	11. Chris/Peter - tumblr

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> BRAGINSKEY:  
> but what if your favorite character found your blog and then confronted you about it  
> HIPSTERCANADA:  
> "you called me a nerd"
> 
> [yep](http://deathoflilies.tumblr.com/post/99535242496/hipstercanada-braginskey-but-what-if-your)

"Peter!"

  
Peter sighs, closing his laptop and pulling out his ear buds. Of course, the man doesn’t have the decency to ring the door bell. No, he has to break in and do so when Peter has quite adamantly told him, “No, I don’t want to go into the woods and risk my life for a bunch of kids. That is so last season.”   
  
The wolf lazily strolls down the spiral stair, claws ready. “What do you want, Argent?”  
  
Argent bristles at the way Peter purrs his name and Peter can’t stop the smirk that flickers on his face. “Come to ask for help?”  
  
The man rolls his eyes.  
  
Chris this time, not the hunter. Peter would never say it out loud but he loves the name. Chris. Sharp then soft and a fading hiss like a sigh escaping his chest.  
  
Chris shakes his head and leans against the wall like an extra in a Backstreet Boys video. “I took care of it. I want to know why you called me a ‘contrary asshole’ on the internet.”  
  
Shit.  
  
Peter tightens his grip on the staircase rail.  
  
"I don’t know what you’re talking about." He throws in a smirk. "I would have just said it to your face and there is so little creativity in that insult."  
  
"What would you have gone for?"  
  
"Murderous murderer who murders."  
  
"More creative?"  
  
The wolf smiles, quick and real. “The internet likes repetition.”  
  
Chris sighs, standing up straight and pulling his hands out of his pockets. “So you’re telling me you aren’t on tumblr?”  
  
"I haven’t the faintest idea what that is."  
  
"So you’re not alphalways?"  
  
Peter exhaled, glad at least that Chris did not find the porn blog. The wolf would never live that down, especially the number of times he mentioned Chris in relation to porn.   
  
"How… cute."  
  
Chris noted the obvious dodge and smirked, taking a step to the base of the stair.  
  
"And you don’t think my ass is the finest piece of ass this side of the watershed and you want my dick or my tongue in you right the fuck now?"  
  
Peter lets go of the rail and takes the few steps to Chris’ space.  
  
"I think you need a better method of interrogation."  
  
Chris smiles, and presses a hand around Peter’s throat, drawing a small moan.  
  
"I think it is working just fine."


	12. Chris/Peter - Flower Shop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> KILLER—INK:  
> I passed a flower shop next to a tattoo shop and at first I laughed because I thought it was ironic and then i freaked because IMAGINE YOUR OTP IN A FLORIST/TATTOO ARTIST AU
> 
> I can be so basic sometimes.

Chris isn’t quite sure what to do when the shop first opens up. Honestly, he was expecting something… different.

  
"Dad, stop scaring the neighbors."  
  
Chris turns back to the window and watches, who might be the shop owner, talk to a man in a tank top. “It’s a flower shop.”  
  
Allison sighs, untying her hair and covering the bloom of wolfsbane tattoo on her neck. “Is there anything wrong with a flower shop?”  
  
Chris narrows his eyes. The man is dressed in a v-neck that dips just right and designer jeans that not only scream “rob me” but “fuck me” and Chris is having a hard time deciding. “No. I just… never expected one to open up here.”   
  
Allison sighs again, slipping on her leather jacket. “I’m going out for lunch. Call me if you need anything.”  
  
Chris watches her breeze out of Silver Ink and smiles. “I will.”  
  
She pops her head in the door way again. “And don’t get distracted if you’re doing a tattoo. Pretty ass can wait.”  
  
Chris nods.  
  
“Wait… what?”  
  
Allison is gone and a customer doesn’t show up for another thirty minutes. At which point, the bubble butt owner is bundled up in a coat and getting into his car. Chris goes back to sketching his next design for Deaton and waiting for a customer.  
  
Chris turns back to window when the bells rings and in walks a kid with a piece of binder paper with two bars on it and a friend who never really stops talking.


	13. Chris/Peter - Mpreg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [moonlettuce](http://moonlettuce.tumblr.com/post/99169151839/damn-it-brain-is-giving-me-more-mpreg-peter) is lovely and click that link to get the full back ground on what's happening in this snippet.
> 
> [tumblr](http://deathoflilies.tumblr.com/post/99244041591/moonlettuce-himitsutsubasa-replied-to-your%22)

Peter is at the door before Chris could even ring the doorbell and Chris knows. Peter has his phone in hand and he’s wearing the glare that melts hearts and resolves.

Wet anger. He wants so desperately to be angry, but he feels, he loves, too much to be done with everything between them.

* * *

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

The worlds come out softer and harder than he expected. Some facsimile of the dry heat he expected from Peter’s slow, heavy steps.

The wolf searches his face and Chris remembers that look from a lifetime ago, when Peter asked him, “Are you sure about this?” and pulled him into a dimly lit room.

The wolf chuckles, broken, cracked. “You have to be kidding me.”

“Peter, why didn’t you fucking tell me?” Chris can’t take the bite out of his words.

The wolf’s eyes narrow, bright and blue. “What the fuck was I supposed to do? I tried calling you the moment I found out. I dialed your number for hours from every phone I could get my hands on. I must have called you a thousand times because I know how much you miss Allison and how badly you want a family again.”

The wolf snarls. “But, no, because fuck that noise. You disconnected your phone and I think that says more than anything about how you felt about me.”

Peter heaves, body straining forward, claws digging into the wood. “I fucking loved you, okay? I didn’t give it up because I thought you would be a good lay. I fucking thought you would be here in the morning, you piece of shit, and you weren’t. You fucking weren’t and you expect me to accept that?”

Chris feels a knife in his chest. “Peter…”

The wolf cuts him off, slamming his claws into the wood of the door frame one more time, ripping chunks out as he goes. “What should I have tried next? Smoke signals? While you were fucking some penny whore in the back of a bar in the middle of fucking god knows where? I have more goddamn pride than that.”

And Peter hurts. Peter burns with four years worse than the six he spent in his own head. Pain Chris can’t soothe with kisses and promises.

"I want to meet her."

“No.”

“I am her father.”

“No.” The wolf lunges forward, pressing claws under Chris’ neck. “No. You are not her father. I carried her. I raised her. I trained her. Without any help from you. She may be her daughter, but you sure as hell are not her father.”

“I deserve to know her.”

“You don’t deserve anything.”

Chris raises his hand to Peter’s claws and gently presses his fingers to the wolf’s. The hand at his throat holds strong, but loosens its grip.

“Peter, please? Let me inside. Let me see her.”

Peter sighs, eyes fading to green, and steps back. Back into the doorway, back into the protection of family that Chris cannot touch or join.

“Jules is asleep, so go away. I’m not about to disrupt her sleeping schedule for an asshole who decided to drag his ass back where he should have been four years ago.”

Chris nods. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.”

Chris backs away, watching Peter fill the doorway, blocking any view of the main hall, where photo after photo, memory after memory, of their daughter lines the halls, painting the soft beige a brilliant rainbow.

He’s not supposed to hear it, but he does as the wind catches Peter’s voice and carries it to his ear.

“You could at least use her name.” 


	14. Chris/Peter- Rick Riordan wants nothing to do with this.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Peter responds to an ad for a model.
> 
> (Also, Greek gods are popular AU.)

Chris stared down at the ad in his hand.

Of course, his daughter had heard him mumbling through the night, turning away his usual models as he tried to get his work just right. The set of angels, commissioned by reclusive patron Deucalion, just needed the Morningstar to complete them. He was a bit out of his medium, preferring paint usually, but when Duke had called him up looking for a set of statues for his garden, Chris couldn’t deny the appeal of working with clay again. Then, if everything went the way he hoped, he would have a bronze statue just in time.

But… Stiles, Scott, and Boyd had… been too good. Chris had tried, tried very hard to make them into a vibrant Morningstar, pre-fall, but his heart wasn’t in it and he wouldn’t deliver a halfhearted work.

So, his daughter had put an ad in the paper. Not that anyone would answer it. The boys were only models because Allison had requested them sit for her portraits first. Then, it was only a matter of time before they spent hours at the house, bringing along Erica and Lydia, helping the Argent artists live up to their reputation.

Until the Hales had come back from New York and opened up shop.

Laura, Derek, Cora, and Peter Hale. Artists in their own way. Laura, loud and vibrant, was a musician. She played violin, piano, guitar, cello, and a number of other instruments she made money off teaching to the citizens of Beacon Hills. Derek was a writer, popular enough to supplement his trust fund with his royalties. Cora attended the local university with Allison, working toward a degree in astronomy and astrophysics. Peter Hale was a professor of history at the local college. Popular and fair, if not perfect PG.

The Hales had always been blessed by the muses, despite being claimed by Artemis, while the Argents were sadly left out of the blessings of the nine.

“I told Stiles not to do that!” Allison pulled her phone out of her pocket, tsk-ing along the way. “Blessed by Athena.”

“It’s alright. We can manage.” Chris revised the statement. Perhaps, he should have a talk with the Sheriff’s boy. Maybe not. Again, Beacon Hills. Unlikely to find any models through the local paper.

“How are the nine?” Allison asked, turning to the altar.

Their golden sun, stained glass made by Allison’s great-great-grandmother, an Italian glass-maker’s daughter brought to the United States by her French husband, glittered in the morning light. Their family had always respected, if not worshiped in Kate’s case, the nine. The rest of the pieces, small pieces made of glass or metal or wood, had been made by the family over the generations. Allison’s was a small silver arrow, delicate and sharp. Chris had made a silver bullet. They loved Apollo and his muses.

Allison’s mother had understood. Victoria, beautiful Victoria, was not blessed by the nine, though she had wished it so. Her patron goddess, Athena, sent her to the other side of the country, litigating before the Supreme Court of the United States.

They’d parted amicably.

“You have a lecture,” Chris said, pouring himself another cup of coffee. She smiled and Chris wondered what would happen tomorrow. It was not his place to say that, perhaps, Artemis was waiting for his daughter, instead of Apollo. However, the text he got from Alan, who knew a guy, hinted that she was in, Artemis’ claimed child.

Allison grinned sunnily, wrapping a scarf around her neck. “I found a perfect model yesterday.”

Chris raised a brow. Oh, maybe not so much a model as…“Who?”

Allison picked up her bag, eyes going unfocused as she sighed. “I met him at the Bean. His name is Isaac, blessed by Hestia.”

Chris nodded. A good goddess.

“Bye, Dad!” Allison called from the door.

Chris grinned into his cup. “Bye, sweetie.”

Chris went back to his sketchbook. His sketches of the statue were good, but not perfect. Not what he wanted. He’d experimented, but not even Boyd had managed the careless intensity that Chris wanted in his statue.

Chris scribbled. Perhaps he could just cut out Morningstar. That would be alright. The other pieces could stand as a set, right?

He turned to the sun. Not caring about the gods was possible and Chris wondered if maybe, this was because he’d never been as faithful in his sacrifices, preferring to dedicate his works to people rather than gods.

But, as the sunlight fell through the kitchen, he felt in his bones that the gods were not unhappy with him. Not at all.

When the doorbell rang, Chris breathed his relief. He set down his coffee and padded over to the door. Maybe the Sheriff had something on Kate. Finally.

Chris opened the door with a smile, until it promptly fell off his face.

Handsome. Wearing carelessly cruel like armor. Still, under ragged edges like shattered glass, there was a beating heart. A red heart.

Satan. Satan in a v-neck. Chris inhaled sharply. “You’re here about the ad?”

The man’s eyebrows went up. “Yes?”

“I’m not Barbara Ferris.”

“I can see that.” Chris felt a little bloom in his chest from the teasing tone in the man’s voice and the hint of a growl.

“You’re still interested in modeling?”

The man smirked and Chris’ heart jumped into his throat. “Yes.”

Chris waved him in, trying not to obviously check out the man’s ass. “The studio is last door to the left. A bathroom is attached.”

The man grinned, heading down he hall. “Do you want me naked now?”

Chris smirked back, opening the door to his workshop. “As soon as possible. You’re not allergic to anything are you?”

“Nope. Can I get your name?” The man started stripping in the work room.

Chris pulled up the chair he wanted the man to sit on. This was going to be a rock, when Chris was done with it, but for now, a chair. “Chris. Chris Argent. What’s yours?”

The man sat on the chair, bare and bold.“Call me Peter.”

Peter’s arms and legs, into something never asking for forgiveness, but also sweet, worthy of love, because God’s favored angel must have been. “Nice to meet you, Peter.”

Peter smiled, small and sweet, before closing his eyes and letting Chris pull his raw edges and beautiful form out of clay.

* * *

“Dad?” As she rounded the bend, her face changed. Allison was… delighted.

Something terrible was going on in her head. Oh, dear sun.

Chris glanced over to where Peter was dressed, thank gods, and drinking from a cup like a normal person. Not Peter then. “What’s up with you?”

“Isaac agreed to sit for me.”

“You mean, he agreed to go on a date with you.”

“He doesn’t know that yet.”

“He should.” Chris handed her the very shiny, very official looking envelope. Yep, Alan’s people were good.

Allison popped open the seal. “Oh my god.”

Peter asked over the edge of his mug.

“Great!” Allison screamed, bouncing around the kitchen as Chris felt a swell of pride in his chest. “I’m going to camp! I’m going to CAMP!”

“Very good.” Chris assured Peter as the man’s brows went as high as her shrieks of joy. “Do you want to tell your mother?”

“OH MY GODS!” Allison screamed one last time before she disappeared in a blur of dark curls.

“You must be proud.” Peter glanced over the envelope. “She must be brilliant.”

Chris grinned. “She’s an artist with her bow.”

“Are those hers?” Chris followed Peter’s eyes to the hyperrealistic images of birds of prey. Hawks. Eagles.

“Yeah.” Proud. So proud.

“She must be a hard sort.” Peter chuckled, putting his empty cup on the counter. “Artemis or Apollo?”

“I think Artemis will claim her.” Peter remarked, glancing over at the shrine. “You’re not the first family to receive a gift from another god.”

“I shouldn’t have been surprised.” Chris smiled as he topped of Peter’s cup. Cream and one sugar. “She was a natural.”

They listened to the faint echoes of screams as Allison told everyone and everyone proceeded to freak the fuck out.

“We should get back to work,” Chris said, feeling inspiration thrum under his skin.

Peter’s eyes lit up, full of mirth. “I think you’ve done enough work today.”

Dionysus, Chris wondered, before guessing. Dionysus. Maybe Dionysus.

A warm lapful confirmed his guess.

* * *

“She’s been claimed by Enyo,” the Sheriff, Astraea’s chosen, muttered.

Chris sighed, sinking into this couch with a beer. “How did you find out?”

“Peter Hale, actually. He was keeping tabs, apparently.”

“I’m sure. Having most of your family killed in a ‘performance art piece’ definitely makes for paranoia.” Chris finished the rest of his beer in one go.

John looked unconvinced. “There was more to it.”

* * *

“What’s got you down?” Peter puttered around his room, wearing nothing but a shirt. Soon, the man would have no reason to come around. He’d go and carry his sweet self far far away.

“The piece is almost done.” Chris pulled a pillow over his face. Ugh. He had it ready for casting once he finished the feathers on the arch of the wings.

Peter came back with a washcloth, wiping Chris down. “Is it?”

“Hmmm…” Chris wondered if he could put it off a little longer. Unlikely.

“I could stick around afterwards.” He could hear Peter’s grin as the towel left his skin, replaced by a warm body. “I could inspire you more?”

Chris pulled off the pillow, choosing to bury his face in Peter’s neck instead.

* * *

Chris sighed as Duke dragged him around the party, showing him off to all the people who came to see the man’s mansion in Caramel.

“I’d like to introduce you to Peter Hale.” Chris followed along, turning to a server to grab a drink. He needed one.

“Pleasure…” Chris muttered, turning to the man in the suit.

“The pleasure is mine, Chris.”

Chris paused, then downed the drink in one gulp. “Peter?”

Peter Hale, standing in the garden, next to a statue that looked more than a little bit like him, smirked. “Your one and only.”

Duke grinned, the goddamn cat. “I recognized him from your statue and figured it out. You have amazing taste.”

Yeah. Great taste. Complete and utterly good taste. Peter freaking Hale.

“Thank you.”

Duke grinned beatifically, before passing Chris to Peter and wandering off to talk to Kali.

“You could have told me,” Chris muttered. Not that he blamed Peter. It was… kind of obvious now that he thought about it. The triskele on the inside of Peter’s right arm. The moon behind his left ear. The time Allison came home with a print out ranking the hottest professors at BHU. The time Peter’s had stood out as number one.

Yeah. He’s a bit slow.

Peter leaned against him setting his wine glass down on the tray of a nearby waiter. “Do you forgive me?”

Chris wrapped his arm around Peter’s trim waist, pressing his nose against Peter’s cheek bone.

“What’s there to forgive?”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heh.


End file.
